


Like a Scarf

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Childhood Friends, Friendship/Love, Growing Up Together, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Grow Up Together, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: Clothes make the man. So does affection, ambition, and magic.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 24
Kudos: 1085
Collections: Tomarry Reverse Big Bang 2020





	Like a Scarf

**Author's Note:**

> Referenced attempted harm to animals (Billy’s rabbit), general unease/neglect/unhappiness at the orphanage, underage kiss. 
> 
> Check out the wonderful art that this story is based on [here](https://irafook.tumblr.com/post/628086894137327616/one-of-my-pieces-for-tomarry-reverse-big-bang) and [here](https://irafook.tumblr.com/post/628088232304902144/my-last-piece-for-tomarry-reverse-big-bang)! I consider myself to be so lucky to have been paired with irafook, whose art of Tom and Harry is so sweet and lovely ❤

A few months into their first year at Hogwarts, Harry drapes a scarf around Tom’s neck. 

Tom scowls. It’s more performance than feeling. The scarf is a warm comfort against the late autumn chill that sent shivers down his neck only moments before. Harry doesn’t stop until the scarf is wrapped snuggly around Tom’s neck. Tom’s Slytherin scarf is back in the dungeons, a far cry from the Hogwarts grounds. He didn’t think it would be so cold.

“There,” Harry says, tucking in the ends of the scarf to keep it from unwrapping. “You looked cold. Now you won’t freeze to death during the game.”

“I suppose your only concern is my health, not draping me in Gryffindor regalia during your first game of the season,” Tom drawls. It’s childish to want to roll his eyes. Tom squashes the urge.

“The first game of my life,” Harry corrects. His eyes are so bright behind his glasses. Harry finds happiness more easily than Tom, but rarely has Tom seen Harry look quite so happy.

Tom touches a hand to the scarf. It’s made out of the same rough wool as Tom’s own scarf. Cheap but serviceable. All else aside, Tom likes Harry’s more, especially when he adjusts the height of it to cover his chin and notices it carries Harry’s scent. It’s almost like one of Harry’s hugs: a little too tight and with a lingering scent of the ice mice Harry carries around in his pockets.

Rarely have he and Harry had enough to be able to share so easily. So often, sharing has come with an element of sacrifice. Tom giving Harry his sweet, claiming a toothache, and Harry piling into Tom’s bed with his own blanket to add to Tom’s, pretending he hadn’t seen Tom’s shivers. But the scarf takes nothing away from Harry; he prefers to fly without one. Even against Hufflepuffs, who would never stoop to using it to their advantage during a game.

“Don’t expect me to wear this during your game against Slytherin,” Tom tells him.

“I know, I know,” Harry placates. “But for today?”

“For today,” Tom agrees. There was never any possibility of him doing anything else; he has already grown used to the sensation of the scarf against his skin.

For someone who was born in winter, Tom has never loved the cold.

Tom follows Harry to the quidditch pitch, idly interjecting between Harry’s nervous rambling and quidditch mania. So far, Tom has avoided Harry’s practices under the excuse that Gryffindor would see him as a spy for the Slytherin team—a very likely impression, considering that Tom isn’t opposed to dropping quidditch strategies Flint’s way if it raises his status in the house. But he has to make his appearance at the game. Harry calls it a mandatory part of friendship, while Tom scorns the very word. Harry has been a part of his life ever since he was brought to the Umbridge Home for Magical Orphans as a child, where Tom has lived since his birth. They’re not brothers—the orphanage discourages such affection—but friendship is such a poor word for everything Harry is to him. Every irritating inch of Harry, every perfect moment that they’ve managed to steal for each other.

It’s enough to get Tom walking, to embrace the outdoors for a few hours. The chill has nothing on Harry’s excitement, even anxious as he is.

“If I have to wear this, then you have to win,” Tom says, cutting through Harry’s rhetorical questions about what Wood will do if Harry falls of his broom. “That’s the deal. I like supporting the winning team.”

“Then you should always wear my colors,” Harry teases.

Tom should probably scrounge up some house pride, but he’s seen Harry’s grace on a broom. Even on the rickety brooms at the orphanage, Harry flew like a bird. “Maybe in a few years.”

It’s not quite that he doesn’t want to wear Harry’s scarf during a game against Slytherin; it’s that right now, he can’t afford the cost.

One day, he will be Slytherin’s rightful leader. Tom will accept nothing less. As of now, he is still only an orphan win a muggle’s last name. A curiosity, to be sure, with his grasp of the snake’s tongue and his skill with magic, but not on the level of the upperclassmen. Tom smiles to himself. Harry may not approve of these particular plans of Tom’s, but he will like a few of the outcomes.

Harry takes Tom’s hand as they walk. It’s an old gesture of comfort, one that Harry hasn’t grown out of and Tom hopes he never does.

True to Harry’s words, Gryffindor wins the match. Tom dips his nose into the scarf and claps loudly. He can’t bring himself to cheer like the Gryffindors do, but he has his own way of showing Harry his appreciation. It doesn’t escape Harry; Tom is the first person he looks to when he grasps the snitch in hand.

Even in the cold, Tom feels so warm.

When the Gryffindors head off to the tower to celebrate their win, pulling Harry with them and giving him no chance to escape, Tom heads to the dungeons, tucking the scarf into his pocket. The first year boys’ dormitory is empty except for the terrarium that holds Nagini, which is as Tom likes it. Nagini is the best conversationalist of the group.

Tom gained control of his yearmates during the first month of school, but in the meantime he managed to disdain every single one of them. Eventually, the sting of their initial scorn of him will fade and Tom will be able to properly appreciate their newfound subservience to him. In the meantime, Tom makes himself comfortable and brings Nagini out of her terrarium. She hisses at him sleepily.

Holding her close, Tom settles on the couch with a textbook. On impulse, he drapes Harry’s scarf over his knees. Nagini slithers down his front in favor of wrapping around the scarf, coiling herself around it not dissimilarly to the way Tom had it wrapped around himself earlier.

“It smells good,” Nagini tells him. She sounds happy. “It smells like Harry.”

“It’s his scarf,” Tom says, turning the page of his book.

“Harry should be here.”

“I agree, but he’s too stubborn.” Tom sighs. Ever since Harry learned that his dearly departed parents and godparents were all in Gryffindor, he would have no other house, feeling the need to live up to their legacy. Tom can’t fault him for it because it’s not as though he hasn’t done the same. Here he sits in the house of his ancestors, speaking their tongue. “It’s for the best. He’s too nice for the plans I have for this house.”

Nagini hisses in agreement. “We must visit him. I won’t eat the rat. I promise.”

Tom smiles. He strokes her scales. “You’re right. Who knows what trouble he’s getting up to without us? We have to curb those Gryffindor impulses of his, even if he’s not here to curb our Slytherin ones.”

Nott arrives an hour later, making a high-pitched sound when he sees Nagini out of her terrarium and leaving with a quick goodbye to Tom. It’s very calming to the part of Tom’s soul that revels in that sort of thing. But with Harry’s scarf on his lap, Tom is already at ease. He barks no orders after Nott.

After several days, the scarf stops smelling like Harry.

Tom gives it back to him, then takes it from him again, playing a game of back and forth. Sometimes Harry drapes it around his neck, other times Tom simply steals it from whatever pocket Harry has shoved it into, just the top visible against his black robes. Tom sometimes wonders if Harry does it on purpose. If he knows Tom doesn’t wrap it around the lower half of his face solely because he doesn’t like the cold.

They have always had so little, he and Harry. Is it any wonder that Tom wants more?

Along with the scarves, they were each given a pair of gloves, hats, and winter robes. Tom doesn’t like the fabrics of the gloves or the weight of the winter robes. According to Madam Umbridge, the overseer of the children’s home, the best quality items go to the orphans who have proved themselves with good grades and special qualities. Tom has no doubt that his belongings will be better next year. He wonders if Harry’s will be. Umbridge doesn’t value quidditch the way the rest of the wizarding world seems to; it won’t matter to her that Harry is the youngest Hogwarts seeker in years.

Tom excels at his studies. This was never in question. In his free time, when he isn’t plotting, he finds spells that smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes and make the fabric more bearable. The wool of his scarf no longer scratches against his chin.

Even Harry notices. “You’re so particular.” Of course, only moments later, he adds, “Can you do that for mine, too?”

“I was already going to,” Tom says, catching Harry’s smile like a butterfly.

He doesn’t ask for anything in return. Harry isn’t a Slytherin, for Tom to demand payment for simple tasks or tutoring. Not only does Harry not have much, but Tom doesn’t feel the urge to take from him. Harry is already his friend. There must be a part of Tom that understands, interwoven as the two of them are, that there is no need for give and take. Tom has already taken. Tom has already given.

As winter turns to spring, there is less need for scarves and gloves. Tom sheds his winter robes like snakeskin, abandoning Harry’s scarf to Harry’s wardrobe until next winter. Nagini hisses at him, disgruntled, and Tom calms her with a caress.

Tom passes his exams with flying colors. It takes some work to make it appear effortless, but he can’t have his yearmates doubt him. When the train arrives to take the students to London for the summer, Tom ditches the Slytherins and shares a compartment with Harry, whose mood plummets as the wheels of the train turn.

“I wish we could spend the summer at Hogwarts,” Harry grumbles more than once, looking out the window as though seeking one last glimpse of the castle. “I asked, you know. Professor McGonagall said that it’s not appropriate to allow students to stay in the castle. She said she can’t play favorites.”

“What does she call making you seeker?” Tom asks.

Harry’s reply is immediate. “Talent.” He kicks Tom’s shin lightly. “Do you think professors have favorites?”

“Yes,” Tom replies. He thinks on it for a moment. “You’re one of hers. That’s why she said it.”

“Not Hermione?”

“I’m sure she has more than one. But you’re her star seeker. And you’re such a _good kid_.” He imitates McGonagall’s Scottish accent. Instead of getting embarrassed, Harry laughs, sending a thrill of warmth through Tom. After being sorted into different houses, Tom missed out on too much of Harry’s laughter. And now they will spend a summer together, but the Umbridge Home for Magical Orphans inspires little laughter on its own. “You should see the way she needles Snape about quidditch games. Do you ever watch them at the head table after a game? He’s furious with her and she looks more like a cat than ever.”

“I wanted to pet her so much that first day of class,” Harry admits, sighing at the memory.

“She would have scratched you.”

“She would not! She said she knew my parents.”

Tom waits, but Harry clams up, not saying a word. After a few moments, Harry’s hand finds Tom’s, and Tom reads one-handed for the rest of the train journey. Nagini rests around Harry’s neck.

“Traitor,” Tom hisses to her without any real feeling.

“You know what it’s like,” Nagini replies. Her tail flicks to their joined hands.

Tom has no excuse to spare. He doesn’t bother thinking of one. He does not have to apologize for seeking warmth. Not here, alone with Nagini and Harry. The rest of the world feels far away despite them continuous movement of the train.

Upon reaching the station, Harry and Tom cluster in the wizarding section of the station with their luggage. As students step off the train, they are joined by the rest of the Hogwarts-aged orphans. Billy Stubbs, Dennis Bishop, and Amy Benson were all sorted into Hufflepuff, and Tom had no reason to pay them any mind during the school year. He saw them in the hallways sometimes and in the classes Slytherins shared with Hufflepuffs. Billy still flinches when Tom looks in his direction, reaching out to touch his rabbit to make sure it’s alright. Tom smiles at him before Harry elbows him and tells him to cut it out.

There are more orphans in the upper years. Only Tom has sorted into Slytherin house. It is a point of pride for him. And glee. Umbridge was a Slytherin.

Students and parents leave the station quickly, excited to head home, while the orphans wait and wait.

“She always does this,” says Maisey, one of the older Gryffindor girls. “She likes to make us wait.”

It is a good strategy to show people their place, Tom thinks, and decides to use it one day. Perhaps he will find a way to use it on Umbridge herself to repay her for every minute he spends waiting.

When Umbridge finally arrives, she is dressed in her customary pink robes. Tom looks at her now and realizes that his time at Hogwarts dulled his dislike of her. He had grown soft even in the house of snakes. It is no matter; Umbridge would remedy that soon.

Their portkey is a pink ribbon. Tom touches it out of necessity. When they arrive, he pulls his hand back as if burned.

While the other orphans head to their rooms, Tom and his yearmates stay behind. Now that they have proved themselves to not be squibs by passing their first year at Hogwarts, they are allowed their own rooms away from the shared children’s room they grew up in. The Hufflepuffs are shown to their rooms first, then Harry, and then finally Umbridge turns to look at Tom.

Her gaze rests on Tom’s Slytherin tie. “A Slytherin, finally. I thought I was doing something wrong, to have a house of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. You have made me proud, Tom.”

“Thank you, Madam Umbridge,” Tom says, forcing a smile. He dutifully wrote to her once a quarter of his academic success, though he has no doubt Umbridge also got checked everything for herself.

In a way, he is grateful to her. Life at the orphanage has been a good lesson for his time in the Slytherin dungeons. The other Slytherin first years were so soft in comparison.

Umbridge opens the door next to Harry’s room. It’s not very big, but there is the usual furniture, as well as a reading nook with a couch and small table. The furniture is cheap, but serviceable, and it is his own for a while. Tom knows well enough that it is not truly his when it can still be taken away from him.

“There’s something else,” Tom says, bringing Nagini out and speaking to her.

He doesn’t want to use his parseltongue like a show pony, but eventually the rumors will reach Umbridge. He would rather use this to his advantage than not. 

“So the bloodline didn’t die with you after all…” Umbridge murmurs, staring at him in a way that Tom distinctly does not enjoy, as though he is suddenly of some use to her. “Your blood hasn’t been so diluted by muggle blood after all.”

Tom imagines hanging her from the rafters like he tried to do with Billy’s rabbit before Harry stopped him. Would Harry stop him in this case? Maybe one day Tom will try and see.

He says nothing.

“I’m proud of you, Tom,” she says, looking greedy instead of properly proud. “I’ll see about updating your wardrobe. Slytherin house expects a certain standard of clothing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It isn’t quite what he wants, but it will do for now. “And for Harry?”

Umbridge looks at him. That is a step too far. Tom knows it. “Anything for you, Tom. My favorite orphan. I suppose you wouldn’t wear pink.”

“Green is customary in Slytherin.” Tom holds his breath.

“Of course.”

When she leaves, Tom takes a deep breath, and hopes his new wardrobe isn’t full of pink. He wonders which scenario is worse: that Umbridge is playing a power game or that she genuinely thinks of him as a favorite. Tom would much rather be McGonagall’s favorite like Harry.

A few weeks later, Tom’s new wardrobe arrives. The fabric is soft and the fit is correct. Tom tries on each piece, setting the clothes to memory. He will be dressed well this coming school year. The clothes already have spells woven into them for durability and wrinkle prevention, but Tom decides he will take the spells apart and add them back in. The only magic he wants to wear is his own.

Harry is thrilled as well, arriving in Tom’s room without knocking wearing a deep red sweater. “This isn’t because Umbridge suddenly likes quidditch, is it?”

Tom huffs. “No.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

“I didn’t say I did anything.”

But Harry doesn’t leave. He claims to like Tom’s reading nook, although Tom rarely sees Harry arrive willingly to the library at Hogwarts. Harry drags his blanket over since Tom refuses to take his own off his bed, covering them both as they read. After a while, warmth all around them in the orphanage that is a little too cold in every season, Tom relaxes into it all. He moves down until he’s resting his head on Harry’s leg, his book held up in front of him.

“Tom?”

“Hm.”

“Can I touch your hair? It always looks so nice.”

Tom thinks about it for a long moment. Long enough that he thinks Harry might forget about his offer. He doesn’t like anyone else touching him, but Harry is different. He wouldn’t be here with anyone else. He wouldn’t let another person hold his hand or hug him. Tom will shake hands as needed, but he doesn’t put up with prolonged contact from any of the idiots around him. Only Harry is different.

Maybe if they hadn’t grown up together, it wouldn’t be so. Maybe Harry would have been just one of the many people Tom disdains. Or maybe they would have found each other anyway, something within them reaching out.

“You can,” Tom says, and immediately feels the touch of Harry’s hand on his hair.

Harry is tentative at first, then comfortably gentle as he strokes Tom’s hair. Tom wonders if Harry remembers one of his parents doing the same all those years ago. Tom’s mother never got the chance. Merope Riddle had collapsed on the steps of this very orphanage before she entered labor and died soon after. James and Lily Potter died several years later by the wand of a jealous, vicious man they once considered a friend.

“I like your hair.”

Without looking up, Tom knows that Harry has abandoned his book. It never takes much. “What did McGonagall say about your parents?”

“My mum liked charms and potions best. She excelled at them—like you do. She was popular and charming and kind. She liked pumpkin juice. She had a Slytherin friend until they grew apart. My dad was better at transfiguration. McGonagall thinks he may have mastered the animagus transformation, but she’s not sure. I’m going to do the same. I don’t care if I’m too young.” Harry continues stroking Tom’s hair as he talks about everything their professor said. It must have been a long meeting. Tom pays attention because Harry is sensitive about these things. “I remember them a little. I remember Mum’s hair the best. It was so red. Like fire. Do you remember yours at all?”

“No,” Tom says, and it doesn’t hurt. It just feels strange in his chest. He stops pretending to look at his book and looks up at Harry instead. It’s too much, all of this. Harry’s expression and his hand and his closeness. Tom wasn’t made for this. He doesn’t know what to do with kindness, both Harry’s and his own. “She gave me my name and then she died. Umbridge says she was ugly.”

“You shouldn’t believe her. You’re too pretty for her to have been ugly.”

Tom makes a face. “Stop that.”

“Do you think your dad is still out there? Mine is gone, but maybe yours could… I don’t know.”

“Adopt me?” Tom asks. He finds an unexpected edge to his voice. “If he didn’t want her, then he doesn’t want me. Besides, he’s a muggle.”

“They’re not that bad. Hermione’s parents are muggle teeth healers. She says they’re very nice. They might let her get a cat soon. She’s jealous of everyone else having pets.”

“She can have Nagini,” Tom says, not meaning it at all.

Nagini makes a sound from her rock perch. She doesn’t understand human language, but she knows the way her name sounds on Tom’s lips. She’s a smart snake, Tom thinks with pride. One day, she’ll be his proper familiar and they’ll be able to do even more. Until now, they will grow and learn.

“I don’t want to be adopted. Not even by my dad.”

Rarely does anyone at the orphanage get adopted. The magical world is particular about bloodlines and magical ties. Names matter and blood matters. Tom refuses to be anyone else’s child. He already has enough resentment for Merope and Tom Senior. No matter what Harry says about Tom enjoying being disgruntled, he doesn’t want to add more people he hates.

“It’s because you like Umbridge, isn’t it?”

Tom glares up at Harry. “I will _end you_.”

“You won’t,” Harry replies with confidence, resting his hand against Tom’s head. “We’re friends.”

“You have other friends,” Tom grumbles.

“But you’re my best friend.” Harry says it so easily.

Tom pushes the blanket up to his nose and mumbles some words into the it. Harry laughs, bright as the sun, and Tom feels too warm. He doesn’t leave.

Summer turns to fall and as a second year, Tom takes on the third and fourth years. Some through manipulation, some through flattery, and some through force. He reminds his own yearmates of their priorities. Summer has made them wild, irritable, like thestrals with an itch. Tom feels more at home in his dormitory than he had at the orphanage. All he misses is Harry’s presence by his side. Harry should be here. He had been sorted before Tom, the hat shouting Gryffindor out into the great hall. Tom had attempted to reason with the hat that he should follow Harry, but his arguments had lacked luster. He is no Gryffindor. He wears his Slytherin tie, even though in the winter, he continues to steal Harry’s scarf. He likes wearing Harry’s gloves, too.

Tom is vicious, possessive. He knows himself well. He allows Harry his other friends because it is tiring to be Harry’s only friend—also, Tom cannot see Harry as much as he wishes to, being in separate houses—but he is darkly glad to come first in Harry’s mind. To Tom, there is only Harry. Far, far below Harry are those who Tom considers interesting or useful or amusing. His Slytherin yearmates fall into the third category, but occasionally have their uses.

That year, Tom discovers the Chamber of Secrets.

It is dark and lovely and terrible, to arrive at a place that welcomes him, but didn’t wait for him.

The basilisk must have been glorious when it was alive. Its death is sad, and yet the dead aren’t relevant in the world of the living. All it is now is a valuable corpse. Tom strokes her flank once, then gets to work. If he occasionally dreams of a world where the basilisk was alive and Tom could have a glorious sort of fun, then he says nothing of it.

Parts of the basilisk he sells, while others Tom keeps for himself, whether as is or in different forms. The only person he parts with a piece of it for free is Harry.

“This is yours,” Tom says, holding up a bracelet made from the basilisk’s skin. “I placed some charms on it.”

Harry slips it around his wrist without question, then remembers to ask, “What kinds of charms?” He twists his wrist to see the bracelet at all angles.

“To keep it protected in case you tear it on one of your adventures. Or during quidditch. And to keep _you_ protected.”

“You’re the best, Tom,” Harry says, hugging him tightly. “Is there a tracking charm on it?”

“Maybe.”

Harry doesn’t stop hugging him. “Don’t be too weird about it.”

“Alright,” Tom says, and lets the hug continue for a while longer.

He offers to take Harry down to the chamber, but Harry only takes him up on it once. It isn’t meant for Gryffindors, Tom decides, feeling rather alright with that. This is Tom’s legacy, this strange, dark place. He never feels lonely here. It’s as though he can feel his connection straight to Salazar Slytherin, skipping over all the family members in between. They don’t matter. All that matters is that the enchantments around the chamber accept the words on Tom’s lips and never say a word about his blood.

Tom ends that adventure with basilisk skin boots and a personal Gringotts account. He clothes himself properly, not getting rid of Umbridge’s outfits but not wearing them again. There is a lot of green, gray, and black in his wardrobe. It suits him.

He adds to Harry’s wardrobe too, not that Harry seems to care much about clothes. But Tom likes to look nice and he likes Harry to look nice, too.

A year later, Slytherin house is Tom’s. He takes some of the more stubborn ones down to the chamber and returns as their leader, as it should be.

He has Salazar Slytherin’s blood running through his veins.

Above his veins, atop his skin, Tom has on a Weasley sweater.

Tom scowls at it, happy as he is that Harry can finally visit him in the dungeons without any of the Slytherins making a fuss, especially during the winter holidays, when there are few of them around anyway. He hadn’t realized what Harry was doing until Harry already had the sweater half on top of him, then gave into it. It is an affront to his very eyes: bright red with an H on top of it.

“You look great,” Harry says, cheerfully rummaging through Tom’s pile of holiday gifts. He finds one brown package wrapped in twine and opens it to reveal another sweater, this one green and with a T. Tom hates it almost as much as the sweater he’s wearing. Harry puts on the sweater and announces, “See? Now we match. They’re from Mrs. Weasley. She says hello.”

“I’m not saying thank you to her.”

“It’s okay, I already said it for you. You love the sweater and you think she’s very kind.” Harry sits down onto Tom’s bed with a bounce.

“You should have joined me in Slytherin,” Tom grumbles without feeling. He sinks back down under the covers. “I’m sleeping in. It’s Christmas.” He reaches for Harry and pulls him in.

Harry goes happily, willingly. Tom misses him during the school year. It’s not like the summers, which are dreary but at least spent entirely in Harry’s presence.

Harry insists on cuddling him. Tom’s show of reluctance doesn’t last long.

He resolves to burn the sweater, but never gets around to it.

Harry wears the sweater often, walking around with Tom’s initial on his chest, and Tom likes the sight of it. He’s happy to let everyone know that Harry is Tom’s. He even sends Mrs. Weasley a thank you card, resigning himself to the Weasleys’ presence in Harry’s life. At least they don’t have the funds to try to adopt Harry, so it’s not as though they are a threat.

It also makes Tom realize that Harry is happy to wear some green in his wardrobe as long as there is emotional significance in it. He takes full advantage of this, then realizes Harry is doing the same in turn, adding autumn colors to Tom’s wardrobe.

A year later, Harry finds Tom and holds up a wrapped present. “Happy birthday, Tom. I hope you like it. It took me ages to figure out how to make this. Mrs. Weasley helped, so did Ron.”

At first, Tom thinks he won’t enjoy a single thing that is inspired by Weasleys, but he is happy to be wrong. He unwraps the dark green scarf from its package and trails his fingers against the soft knitting. Harry is too eager to tell him about his mistakes, pointing out a few missed stitches and a strange little knot toward one end of the scarf.

“I like it,” Tom tells him.

He lets Harry wrap the scarf around his neck. It is winter and Tom adores it just for this moment, this small, perfect thing. A new year approaches and with it Tom’s dreams and ambitions, but also more time with Harry. More of this.

When Harry kisses him, just a soft brush of lips, Tom isn’t surprised. He lets himself enjoy the warmth of Harry’s lips and of the scarf wrapped around his neck. Later, he will ask Harry how he managed to keep this project from Tom, but for now all that matters is the way Harry’s cheeks are warm when he leans back to look at Tom.

“Was that alright?” Harry asks.

Tom nods. Like a confession, he admits, “I like you. It’s unfair, how much I like you.”

“I like you, too,” Harry says, sounding entirely unbothered by it all. Just happy.

There is no one else in the world who Tom is so careful with, who he tries to make better off instead of thinking solely of himself. Harry isn’t the same way; he finds it easy to be kind, giving, _easy_. Tom isn’t easy. But it is easy to let himself have Harry’s affection, since he wants it so very much.

Tom even gives into putting on a Weasley sweater again, spending the rest of the day in the red sweater, with Harry’s hand holding his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](https://wynnefic.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Check out the wonderful art that this story is based on [here](https://irafook.tumblr.com/post/628086894137327616/one-of-my-pieces-for-tomarry-reverse-big-bang) and [here](https://irafook.tumblr.com/post/628088232304902144/my-last-piece-for-tomarry-reverse-big-bang).


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